


Standing By

by Canon_Is_Relative



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Compliant, Dean's Birthday, Fluff and Angst, Gen, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Laser Tag, POV Sam Winchester, Pre-Series, Protective Sam Winchester, Sam Takes Care Of Dean, Star Wars References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 07:05:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1183325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Canon_Is_Relative/pseuds/Canon_Is_Relative
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam is 11, Dean is about to turn 16. They’ve been living for months in a little town outside of Madison, Wisconsin, and John says it’s time to go. But Sam wants Dean to have a real birthday, for once, and talks their dad into letting them stay for just one more day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Standing By

**Author's Note:**

  * For [frozen_delight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/frozen_delight/gifts).



> Much of this was inspired by a brief moment in "Lazarus Rising" so there are a lot of Star Wars references. I would apologize for this except that, like Dean, I never apologize for Star Wars. In the episode, when Dean needs to track down Sam using his cell phone GPS, you hear him give Sam’s name as “Wedge Antilles.” Bobby asks, “How did you know he’d use that name?” and Dean mumbles, “What don’t I know about that kid.” It was beautiful and perfect in the context of the show, and I also loved the nod to my first-ever fandom. The events of this fic plant the seed of that moment.
> 
> FYI: I'm watching SPN for the first time, currently in the 4th season. As I began to do research for this fic I realized I was going to get spoiled if I continued digging for dates and facts. So while this is canon compliant as far as I know from what I've seen up to Castiel's entrance, I also have no doubt that somewhere in 9 seasons something is revealed that contradicts the idea of them having been in Wisconsin for several months in 1994-95. Sorry.

Dad promised them they’d be moving on before the end of winter break, before school started up again.

 

Sam was getting better at not taking Dad’s guarantees too seriously, not being surprised when they went up in smoke, holding on to his temper when Dean started in making excuses for the latest broken promise. This time was different, though, because Sam didn’t know what he wanted more - to stay or to go. All he wanted was to know what was going to happen so he could be ready for it when it did.

 

But Christmas came and went, then the New Year, and then it was Monday and Dean was grumbling and shaking Sam awake as he stumbled into the kitchen, bribing Sam to eat his half-stale Wheaties with the promise of burgers and frozen custard after school. And even though every day they stayed meant leaving would be that much harder, when he passed through the big glass doors that sealed out the cold Wisconsin winter and welcomed him back to the world of chalk dust and lunch lines and the familiar squeak of wet shoes against tile and the echo of lockers slamming, Sam breathed a sigh of relief.

 

He _liked_ it here. He liked this school and he liked this little town called DeForest that was close enough to the city of Madison that there were always things going on but small enough that he and Dean in their work boots and hand-me-down flannels didn’t stand out like freaks the way they had last year in Chicago or, worse, three years ago in Los Angeles. And they’d stayed here for so long, too, a whole semester. He’d made friends with a couple kids who taught him how to play a sweet card game called Magic: The Gathering, who talked about normal things and seemed to like him and tagged along happily to see _Dumb and Dumber_ with him and Dean.

 

He liked it here. He didn’t want to leave. But what he wanted didn’t matter and so he’d been counting on Dad, for once, to keep his promise so they could slip away before school started again. So he could avoid the waiting game of wondering every day if his class with Mrs. Patterson was going to be the last time she smiled at him and praised his hard work, if every lunch period was the last time he’d swap his Snack Pack for Robbie’s homemade chocolate chip cookies and risk the other boys thinking he was weird when he actually agreed to trade his candy bar for Adam's grapes.

 

But January was almost over before Dad met them outside the school and told them with a grim smile that he was done here, time to move on. Dean gave a whoop and smacked the hood of the Impala the way Sam had seen guys on TV smack ladies’ butts. He grinned at Sam and jumped into the front seat, turning on the radio and singing along the whole ride home to the motel.

 

“Dad?” Sam stood just outside Dad’s half-open door, watching him pack his duffel.

 

“Yeah?” Dad answered without looking up, scrutinizing the grip of a single-barrel shotgun before wrapping it and tucking it away.

 

Sam pushed the door open, hovering on the threshold. Dean was in the shower, still singing, which meant he had all of maybe ten minutes to make his pitch, talk Dad into it. He nearly balked, but when Dad looked up, a questioning frown crinkling his weary face, Sam squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. This was for Dean, after all.

 

“I was thinking, you know tomorrow’s the twenty-forth. Dean’s birthday,” Sam added quickly before Dad could give a sign one way or the other that the date meant anything to him. If Dad had forgotten Dean’s birthday again, Sam would explode at him, which wouldn’t help his case.

 

Sam dropped his eyes to his scuffed-up boots, taking a deep breath. “Some of the kids at school, I’ve heard them talking about this new place in town, Ultrazone, it’s this…it’s laser tag.” He looked up again, an embarrassed grin on his face, stumbling over his words. “It’s like paintball, only with lasers, and you run around this big warehouse that’s all dark with flashing lights and you shoot the other players with, like, ray guns. It’s supposed to be really cool and I know Dean would love it and they give you a free game if it’s your birthday and he’s turning sixteen which is, like, a big deal, and I figure it’s only one more night and we’re paid up here until the end of the week anyway so maybe we could…go.”

 

Dad blinked at him, looked down at his half-packed bag. Shrugged. Brushed past Sam and out to the kitchen where he poured two fingers of whiskey into a glass and groaned down onto the sofa, reaching for the remote. “Sure.”

 

Sam was a bundle of nerves all the next day and he let his excitement buoy up his heavy heart, let it keep him from dwelling on every this-is-the-last-time-I’ll… moment. When Dad picked them up after school, Sam slid into the back seat, waited for Dean to buckle up in front of him, then pulled the card he’d made while pretending to pay attention in Civ out of his backpack and leaned forward to shove it into Dean’s hands. “Happy birthday, Dean!”

 

Dean looked from Sam’s glowing face to their dad, who shrugged and gave him a crooked grin. “Happy birthday, Son.”

 

Dad shifted into gear and guided them out into traffic, not back to the motel but towards the highway, towards Madison. Dean laughed and muttered something about how they were both such geeks, his casual tone undercut by the way he ripped into the envelope, pulling out Sam’s card. Sam slid sideways on the seat as Dad turned the car, still unbuckled and leaning forward, not wanting to miss Dean’s reaction even as the heat rose to his face, the card with his clumsy drawing of a pair of guys holding laser guns looking suddenly childish and stupid in Dean’s big hands. Dean looked back at him, eyebrows raised, not teasing yet.

 

“Open it,” Sam prompted, squirming.

 

“Buckle your seatbelt, Sammy,” Dad said without looking back.

 

Sam ignored him as Dean opened the card, mouthing the words Sam had printed there. Then he let out a whoop and turned to grab Sam in an awkward hug across the back of his seat. “Laser tag? Dude! _Awesome_!”

 

Sam was grinning so hard he thought his face might split and he squeezed his brother right back. Dean spent the rest of the drive into town swiveled around in his seat, grinning at Sam, both of them talking a mile a minute - strategy, plans, rehashing what they’d heard about the game from their schoolmates who’d already gone.

 

When they pulled up in the parking lot, Dad idled by the front entrance and Dean’s face fell for a split second before he plastered his smooth smile back on. “You don’t wanna come, Dad?”

 

Dad snorted softly. “Chasing human kids with a fake gun on my day off? Nah. You boys have fun, I’ll wait for you out here.”

 

Dean shrugged and slid out of the car, slamming the door with no more force than he usually did. But Sam sat still, ice and fire chasing through his veins, glaring at the sliver of his dad’s face that he could see in the rearview mirror. Dad didn’t say anything, didn’t look at him.

 

“You know,” Sam started, then cleared his throat and spoke louder. “Plenty of other parents play. My fri—this guy I know from school, Robbie, he and his dad played on a team for his birthday and his dad loved it.”

 

“Dean’s waiting for you, Sam,” was all Dad said.

 

Dean seemed to have gotten over it already, halfway in the door and looking back for Sam, arms spread wide like _Hurry up, dude!_ and a stupid grin on his face that Sam couldn’t help returning as he hurried to catch up. Sam marched them up to the register and announced that it was his brother’s birthday so he was owed a free game. Then he paid his own admission fee with his Christmas money from Pastor Jim. The money for Dad’s ticket that he’d got from selling his best Magic cards to Robbie and Adam stayed buried in his pocket like a lead weight.

 

They sat impatiently through the rules and regs briefing, packed into a room with twenty other excited teens and, Sam tried not to count, five parents. Beside him, Dean was ignoring the lecture, fiddling with his laser gun, sighting along it, turning it over in his hands. Sam eventually stopped listening too to pay attention to Dean. It was weird, something about the sight of him with his plastic phaser was weird, but Sam couldn’t put his finger on it until they stood up to put their combat vests on and Dean, still grinning, stuck his finger through the trigger guard and twirled the phaser over his head like a baton. Sam let out a burst of laughter and copied him.

 

Dean was treating the gun like a toy. That was it. That _was_ it - the gun _was_ a toy.

 

“Step lively, Sammy, get your gear on.” Dean was already wearing his vest with the targets on it that would light up red when the game started and holding another one out for Sam. Another red one like his, same team.

 

A few years back, once Sam had learned the truth about what their dad did and started training alongside Dean, Dad took them out to a paintball range and Sam had watched with awe that turned quickly to alarm the way Dean handled the paintball gun with the care and respect due a much deadlier weapon. But now, today, his big brother who spent hours cleaning, assembling, caring for his guns; training with them, sleeping with them; his brother who’d yelled at him when he got hit in the paintball game because _What if it wasn’t just paint splashed across your chest, Sammy, huh?_ was tossing around a fake weapon and making _pew, pew!_ laser noises under his breath. This was Dean, who couldn’t watch an action movie without yelling at the screen, making Sammy repeat the actor’s mistakes back to him until Sam begged him to just change it back to cartoons. Or Star Wars. Not even Dean would criticize Star Wars.

 

“Hey, Dean,” Sam muttered, jabbing Dean with his elbow and leveling his phaser at Dean’s chest when Dean turned to look at him. “Freeze, you rebel scum.”

 

Dean’s eyes skirted behind him and his face morphed into a look of surprise, pointing over Sam’s shoulder. “Sammy, look out!”

 

Instinct took over and Sam ducked and spun, bringing his gun to bear like it was anything more than a few pounds of plastic, looking up to see…nothing. Behind him, Dean croaked out, “It’s a trap!” Nearly doubled over with laughter, he let Sam punch his shoulder without retaliating.

 

The lights went off then, and the room went dark except for the glowing vests and guns, the hushed voices around them reaching a fever pitch as they were finally allowed to form a shuffling line that would take them into the game room. “Wish we got walkie-talkies for this, man, how great would that be,” Dean muttered.

 

“Echo Three to Echo Seven,” Sam said in his best radio voice. “Han old buddy, you read me?”

 

“Sweet,” Dean nudged him. “I’m totally Han Solo.”

 

Sam opened his mouth to object - Dean always let _him_ be Han - and then shut it again. He supposed since it was his birthday after all, Dean could be Han if he wanted. “Fiiine,” he said with exaggerated reluctance.

 

The Game Master put them all into position, each of the teams starting at different doors. He and Dean were near the back of their group, and over the heads in front of him Sam could see strobe lights. The pulsing beat of techno music rolled out to welcome them in along with the faintly sweet, burnt smell of a fog machine. “So you’re Han. Who am I, Luke?”

 

“No. Red Two. Wedge Antilles,” Dean said without missing a beat. “Greatest ace pilot in the fleet. Only rogue to survive both Death Star runs. Definitely want him on my team.”

 

Sam frowned. “Isn’t Luke cooler? He actually blew up the Death Star.”

 

“Nah,” Dean waved a hand dismissively. “He’s a Jedi with mind powers, that’s practically cheating. Wedge is just a regular guy who’s better than everyone else.” He winked at Sam and half-turned away before stopping, throwing his arm around Sam’s shoulders and pressing his lips briefly to the top of Sam’s head and thanking him in a gruff voice for the best birthday ever.

 

Sam was grateful for the darkness and loud music that made it okay for Dean to do that as much as for hiding the way his cheeks were suddenly burning and he had to cough around the lump in his throat before he could elbow Dean away and call him an idiot and remind him they hadn’t even started playing yet. Dean just grinned at him for a split second before the starting gun went off and suddenly they were darting into the fake fog, Sam tripping along at Dean’s heels, ducking for shelter and returning fire with reckless abandon. The first time Dean was shot and his gun powered down for the ten-second penalty, Sam caught his breath and braced himself for a snarl of rage, a switch into actual battle mode. But Dean just laughed and threw himself down behind the column that had protected Sam from suffering the same cruel fate.

 

Huddled together behind it, breathing hard, Dean outlined their new strategy, speaking right in Sam’s ear to be heard above the music and shrieks of the other players. The game room seemed huge but Sam suspected it was mostly tricks of the flashing light and strategic corridors that blocked off any long view. If they could get a sense of the layout, they would own it. There were almost thirty people playing this round, broken into teams who all glowed the same color so you’d know who to shoot and – theoretically – who not to shoot, but Dean laughed off the idea of joining with their team to defend the red base. “It’s you and me, and fu—screw the rest of ‘em, all right?” And Sam replied on cue, “Red Two, standing by!” and lifted his hand to slap Dean’s palm.

 

They blasted through the course, covering each other’s backs, laughing when their vests went dark. Calling lines from _Star Wars_ and _Jurassic Park_ and _Terminator_ back and forth and racking up their kill count. At the end of the game, if it weren’t for all the points they’d lost by shooting their own teammates they’d have been in the lead by orders of magnitude.

 

Sam and Dean ambled back out to the lobby and stopped mid-laughing-sentence when they saw their dad sitting in the waiting area, reading the paper. Dean’s arm dropped from around Sam’s shoulders as Dad looked up, saw them, and stood.

 

Stretching out his back, Dad asked if they’d had fun. Sam, still riding the high and feeling like he was vibrating, flying, couldn’t bring himself to stop grinning, sober up. He nodded and launched into a description of their finest moment, when they’d trapped ten guys at once down a dead end and tagged them all without getting hit once. Dean laughed along and ruffled Sam’s hair. Sam ducked out of his reach.

 

A crowd was gathering in the lobby, eager to pay for the round that was starting up in ten minutes. Sam watched them, listened to the excited chatter of the group, the _tching_ of the cash register. He sighed and looked back to Dad, who had followed his gaze. Without looking back at his sons, John said, “It’s early, yet. You boys wanna play another round, show your old man how it’s done?”

 

They went to Michael’s after the game for burgers and shakes, and Sam even managed to slip away to tell the pretty waitress Dean had winked at that it was his brother’s birthday and she and three others came over to sing to him. Dean went as red as checkered-tile floor and didn’t stop glaring at Sammy until they went away, leaving a slice of pie on the table in front of Dean. Sam only grinned at him and reached for the pie. Dean swatted his hand away and Sam leaned back, still grinning, and licked chocolate ice cream off his red plastic spoon.

 

Dad didn’t say much while Sam and Dean were rehashing their victory, the havoc the three Winchesters had wreaked in the game room, telling the stories over and over. But out in the parking lot he handed Dean the keys to the Impala and told him to drive them home. Dean’s fingers closed reverently over the steering wheel and he stroked the gearshift once before shifting her into drive and pointing them back towards DeForest. Stretched out in the back seat, Sam watched tail lights and street lights streak past them like laser bolts, Dean driving so fast he turned the gently falling snow into a star field and the windshield into a cockpit viewscreen. Flying them home.

 

Dad will wake them before dawn the next morning and they will spend the next thirty hours in the car, the brothers slumped against each other in the back seat, while he chases a lead to Eugene, Oregon. Racing against time to get there before the scent goes cold.

 

Over the next ten years and more the stories they tell about that night will change, of course. Sam will say Dad let Dean drive home not out of respect for the mystical rite of turning sixteen - it wasn’t like Dean had a license and anyway it was hardly the first time he’d ever driven the car - but because he’d emptied his whole flask into his mug of diner coffee. Sam will say that Dad didn’t change his mind and offer to play with them because of anything Sam had said, but only for the chance to see his boys, his soldiers, in action.

 

Sam will say these things, Sam will rail against their dad and try like hell to get Dean to see the truth, agree with him. Dean will shake his head and rub his hand over his mouth and turn away, _Give it a rest, Sammy_ , because those things don’t matter to him, they don’t change anything. Nothing can change the fact that every January when his birthday rolls around he feels like he’s sixteen again. Nothing can change the way he calls Sammy _Wedge Antilles_ and Sam replies _Standing by._ The way their hands come together like magnets, banishing the space between them, between _now_ and _then_ , if only for an instant.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Star Wars:  
> ["Freeze! ... You rebel scum."](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MRoBv-9ueMo) \- Imperial officers to Han Solo  
> ["It's a trap!"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=piVnArp9ZE0) \- Admiral Akbar  
> "Echo Three to Echo Seven...Han old buddy, you read me?" - Luke Skywalker to Han Solo, their call signs on Hoth  
> Red Two, Wedge Antilles....Crack pilot, survivor, fan favorite. [Pretty much just awesome.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F4uNYHVRToQ)
> 
>    
> Madison:  
> [Ultrazone](http://www.playlasertag.com/) opened the year this is set.  
> [Michael's Frozen Custard.](http://www.designcoalition.org/projects/Michaels/michael.htm) My first job! Maybe I was there too, singing to Dean ;) Though seeing as I was about 9 at the time, probably not. [I'm sure looks about like this when they go.](http://m7.i.pbase.com/g1/89/701689/2/107324277.KfFXP9LW.jpg)  
> ([image credit](http://www.city-data.com/forum/wisconsin/110494-images-wisconsin-72.html))


End file.
